


Ibíd

by Deirdreh



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: A literally –and literary– mess., Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Kind of prose or poetry... idk man, PwP- a very weird and implied porn, There are so many things going on and none of them is good, Translated oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 21:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15324393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deirdreh/pseuds/Deirdreh
Summary: Wicked starved creature for something that resembles love.





	Ibíd

**Author's Note:**

> Behold metaphors and others literary figures.

“ _I like for you to be still, it is as though you are absent*,_  
_Your cold, pale, translucent skin like a small axolotl,_  
_Your fragile body covered in scars like scattered flowers,_  
_I draw you with my fingertips an amalgam of pages that I have read and I have quoted_.”

Tell me, do you think I am _pretty_?

I think that I love you in some harmlessly lethal way, like a substance that sporadically effervesce in my veins and I feel you like a million stings injecting into them.

You are going to kill me –romantically. And I am going to let you do it because I love these kind of things.  
I do not think if you’ll find out while you are holding my hands, my elbows, my shoulders, my hip pierced by the angular bones of your fingers.

Let’s sit, tea time and chat until our lungs collapse. And then a bit more. Let’s talk about anything you want, just allow me to avoid those clumsy topics. The ones that just wants to delve into the deep or scratch the soul. And when our tongues are too worn for us to feel real,

 _Do_ tell me that I am pretty. _Please_.

It’s just that all I need is you getting tangled up in my hair and pull it out until it melts in the door. Do it with violence and a hint of eroticism. Leave a mark that says ‘here, I was alive’. Make me feel insane and sound. Penetrate the center of my thorax with your lithium claws and burn all my useless organs there, warm them up, light them up, burst them.  
Just like when you caress my scars, counting them one by one and up to my rawboned torse to the gap between the rib cage. And nail your nails there _._ _I can feel you_ – sinking like a million of stings pressing against the sensitive nerve. That is you love.

And please, _pretty please_ , tell me that I am pretty.

Even when I look helplessly indecorous, caught red handed and red all over the room –the same red that some day is going to possess you, that one that ruined me.  
Even when I am very aware in what I have become, what I have done, all what I have ruined –firstly me, soon you. And then I smile.

And I swear, I swear to the god that gave me live to abandoned alone and desperate in this gArden of mine, when you let go of me I’m gonna throw you down the stairs. The ones that dared to separate us. And I’m gonna watch your pretty face full of despair while you are falling down. I have kept tears and horror for such occasion.

Do not think, not even for a second. Do not hesitate. I have my heart right here, in my hands around your neck – _crack!_ , my hands over your calcium spine burning my fingerprints

 _Don’t you realize you had erase all my prints –my marks?!_  
 _My athazagoraphobia writhing like a poisoned snake._  
And it hiss that you took everything, even my story,  
And  
Then you left me alone and alive in some beautiful beach.  
Without a return ticket.

And you holding me so feeble like if you were about to die, like if I were your reaper. However you are so alive that I feel the path of your blood too much hot in your veins and that disgusting crackling heartbeat of yours.  
You are more alive than I am.  
So do me the favor and be honest:

Do you think I am pretty?

_Don’t you think I am prettier when I paint my own bone structure in oils so pale that the silver turns to blister blue?  
Is just that I am a corpse, yes, but I am not rotting. And the bruises in my skin are your stings, memories that your incisive affection trailed a path through here._

Did you know? I disgust everything that alludes to romance or every abstract concept due to it is all saturated with cavities and if you ponder it enough you realize it’s nothing more than another reflective monologue, absurd generic reasoning, absurd tales of dream of nightmares.  
 _ **I**_  
do not fit in its superfluous figure, its hollow pathetic structure.  
What’s the use, beside hindering my destiny?

They are not prettier than I am… _are they_?

You got that well, don’t you?  
And I find myself scared to think that you get me, you get me with the same intensity that a deity gets a lost soul, trespassing the dangerous intimacy of the personal space and right through the abandoned and ruined heart.  
That your deformities fit too well between the hollows of my structure as if a gear were to be assembled to wind the family heirloom.  
And I do not understand such ambiguities, the why people need to hold onto someone, or, in the case they feel overwhelmed, to something mundane. I do not get that due to there’s nothing, but what’s here’s mine.*

Is in that moment when they scrutinize me with their narrowed irises, sharp as the knife that will pierce my throat and lethal as the intentions of my beloved murdered. They say that I am an abnormality, a creep, a divergence, an absurd, a _sui generis*_. They say I should stop trying to get attention or I’ll end up being ignored.

And that happened to me and now I do not exist.

Still you are with your _roue de fortune_ eyes and they stare at me in a plane in which I do not believe but then I find myself feeling totally naked. Naked in an autumn dawn when I have to cover myself with a thicker padding while you keep staring me.

I lie down in front of you, in front of your carved cement crypt

, and again,

“Matsumae tell me I am pretty.”

You stretch your porcelain hands –too cold, too pale, too much pretty, like the oils that represent my skin.  
And, then, you tell me:

“Oh my beloved, If you just were alive.

If only we existed in another space-time.

If I just were alive.

If you just were prettier.”

And you leave not saying my name, leaving me still.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *1 ‘I like for you to be still, it is as though you are absent’ Pablo Neruda; Poema XV.  
> *2 ‘There’s nothing here but what’s here’s mine’ Every you, every me by Placebo.  
> *3 Sui Generis: Unique in its kind.
> 
> P.d: The original version is also mine. (Cuz who the Hel would translate this mess?)


End file.
